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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24543283">Once Upon A Time in the Dock Wards</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackhurstManor/pseuds/BlackhurstManor'>BlackhurstManor</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Deepwatch: Malcolm [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Dungeons &amp; Dragons (Roleplaying Game)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Blood and Violence, Crimes &amp; Criminals, D&amp;D, Dungeons &amp; Dragons 5th Edition, Dungeons &amp; Dragons References, Fantasy, Gen, Gritty, Life Lessons, No Romance, No Smut, Origin Story, Waterdeep, bad dad</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 00:23:11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,120</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24543283</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackhurstManor/pseuds/BlackhurstManor</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Malcolm Taffer is a character in our D&amp;D group, a human rogue working for the Zhentarim in Waterdeep. Our group (like so many) used fiction prompts to highlight the interior lives and past stories that otherwise might never see the light of day in actual table play. This is the first of a few snapshots of Malcolm's growth into the man he was when the first session started.</p><p>Everyone comes from somewhere, but that 'somewhere' is never neat and tidy. A thousand little lessons clash with biology and class to reveal the person beneath -- a prison of nature and nurture. No one thing made Malcolm Taffer into an amoral enforcer for the Zhentarim, a talented man who shunned a more noble life. But many things like this one did.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Deepwatch: Malcolm [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1773874</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Once Upon A Time in the Dock Wards</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“Don’t sulk, runt. Watch.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t call me that,” Malcolm snapped back, hating himself a little for the note of sullen petulance in his voice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Grow a bit more and I will. Watch, I said.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Never “boy.” Never “Malcolm.” Never, gods forbid, “son.” Malcolm’s father had called him “runt” for as long as he could remember, and the name stuck. Even now, with a half-grown Malcolm standing a head taller than his father, the nickname stuck. And stung.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Malcolm did not want to watch, so he let his gaze wander instead. This ramshackle cave of a tavern wasn’t much different than a dozen other places like it in the Dock Ward; even the sign outside was merely a crude ale stein painted directly over the entryway. This was not a place to seek out. It was a place to crawl inside and die a little more.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oblivion, it seemed, was good business. In the dim half-light of sunset slanting through the cracks of the place Malcolm saw perhaps three dozen men: the most desperate loners lined the splintered planks of the bar, while the boisterous gathered in groups around the tavern’s mismatched tables and chairs. They were of every imaginable build, age and species, but you only had to look a second longer to know they were all the same man. Malcolm’s father was no different.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>To a man, they were focused on the same thing. So he reluctantly followed suit.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The tavern’s attention converged on the centermost table. Only three men sat there, lined up in a row on a bench, the middle man much smaller than his companions. He was also younger, and a half-elf besides.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Looks like he’s lost at sea, don’t he?” Malcolm’s father muttered, the malicious grin on his face infecting his voice with a kind of poisonous glee.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He looks like he don’t belong,” Malcolm said, slowly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good,” his father said. “Tell me why you think so.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well…” Malcolm hesitated, but already he was warming to the exercise. “He’s too clean. He looks like he was plucked up from the North Ward and dropped on that bench by one of the Walking Statues.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His father chuckled. “No shit on his shoes, that’s for gods damned sure. Like your boy Davil, but not ‘alf as keen.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Malcolm’s face twisted, and his father laughed louder.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oi, that stung, did it? Him fuckin’ off to grand adventures and leavin’ you here to rot? Told you not to trust his kind, runt. Long as they live, they can’t ‘elp but see humans like you and me as disposable. We’re like pets with airs to them.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Malcolm did not rise to the bait. After a beat, his father shrugged.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Here, they’ve got him proper drunk enough. Watch very close now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Malcolm watched.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tell us one more time!” said the half-elf’s left-hand companion, a barrel-chested brute of a man with a shaggy, unkempt beard.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And one more drink to lubricate the tale,” said the right-hand companion, a thinner man with a massive burn scar down his right cheek, as he shoved a sloshing mug into the half-elf’s hands.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The half-elf took a long drink – perhaps for courage – and then began.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well…”</span>
</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <span>Malcolm smirked and muttered darkly to his audience of one.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He’s new in town, he goes to the Yawning Portal, arrives just in time for a beast that’s all limbs and teeth to crawl out and overpower everyone there. He picks up a fallen man’s bow and gets in a lucky shot, and in gratitude they give him a nice big pouch full of gold… Tempus’s balls, we’ve heard this three times already. What is the point of it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The point,” Malcolm’s father said sharply, “is to make the lad feel like he’s in charge here. And to get him more drunk, of course. Once the tale wraps up, I think you’ll find his new friends will suggest… ah. Here we are. Watch.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Reluctantly, Malcolm watched.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As the half-elf finished his tale he hoisted his bag of gold coins – barely dented even after several rounds of drinks – and the room cheered and slapped their tables. Even Malcolm’s father cupped his hands and shouted, “</span>
  <em>
    <span>THE HERO OF THE PORTAL!</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” which led to another round of cheers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The half-elf’s posture changed, just so: that little shift of shoulders and weight that says his time there had concluded. His bearded companion pounced, slapping the half-elf’s shoulder mightily.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Enough of this shithole,” he bellowed, to scattered jeers and laughs from the rest of the tavern. “Let’s find a proper place to get you drunk and laid, son!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Another cheer, and though the blushing half-elf feigned disinterest, he was standing as his companions did. And let them lead him right out back door into the alleyway beyond. Malcolm’s father rose and followed, as did a half-dozen others.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Malcolm followed.</span>
</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <span>His father jostled to the front of the pack with Malcolm in tow just as they passed through the doorway to the alley, so they were the first to catch sight of the half-elf and his companions. In the dying sunlight they were little more than silhouettes receding into a maze of alleyways, framed in darkness on three sides and orange-red hanging over them. The two men were talking loudly over each other, and Malcolm could not make out what they were saying. He supposed it didn’t matter.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thing about your boy Davil and his friends,” Malcolm’s father said softly, “they want to be big damned heroes. Terrible idea. No angle in it. It just puts a target on your back, like – “</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He stopped short, and Malcolm’s gaze shot back to the three men down the alleyway. As they talked and laughed, the slim one with the burned face reached behind his back and unsheathed a dagger from beneath his tunic, quick and quiet as you please.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Malcolm held his breath. The men jostling in behind him and his father went still.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Watch,” Malcolm’s father said, quiet as a sinner in church.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It didn’t take long. The bigger man clapped his hand on the back of the half-elf’s neck jovially, then tightened his grip. The dagger glinted before disappearing into the half-elf’s back once, twice, three times.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Malcolm looked away. He heard the dagger find purchase a half dozen times more, rapid as a crossbow magazine.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looked back in time to see the two men disappear around a corner with the half-elf’s coin pouch. Their victim was still; just more trash in a place overflowing with it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t ever be a hero, runt,” his father said. “Heroes die. Now watch.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His father broke the spell, running with the rest of the men close behind to pick the half-elf’s body clean of all belongings.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Malcolm watched.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
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